


Semi-Accidental Couch Snuggles

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M, boundary-pushing Clint, exhausted Phil, like seriously--utter fluff, not AOU compliant, shut up I like sap, utter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's bored.  Phil's tired.  There's DVR'ed stuff to be marathoned.  And there's a couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semi-Accidental Couch Snuggles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlyKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/gifts).



> AlyKat feels crummy and asked for fluff. This? is fluff. No compliance to AoU at all, and set probably prior to us meeting Clint in the MCU.

“Okay, really?” Clint doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's sitting here in Phil's living room on Phil's couch with nothing even vaguely resembling permission. Actually, he doesn't technically have permission to know where Phil's living room _is_ because it's totally above his clearance level, but they can't legitimately get mad at him for doing good spystuffs, so there.

It's not his fault. That he went looking, or that he broke in, or that he made himself at home. Broken ankles _suck_ , okay, and sure, they gave him painkillers that are pretty good, but the fun of being high tends to wear off quickly, and also he doesn't like being drugged alone. 

And where else is he going to break in that he's pretty sure he won't get shot? Like who else would he trust in his diminished state? But he's been here for more than three hours, so he already looked at all the shelves and touched some of the little Captain America figures (carefully; he's a heathen but not an idiot) and now he's bored just about to death, so yay, yay Phil is home to talk to.

None of which he says to Phil, who is looking at him like maybe he moderately regrets every decision in his life that led him to the path in which he knows Clint. Finally, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sure, come on in, make yourself at home. Also: Okay, really, _what_?”

“You DVR Spongebob!” Clint doesn't know exactly why that's so hilarious to him, but it kind of makes him want to bounce on the couch. Also, he is totally taking that as a legitimate invitation to stay.

Not that he doesn't usually want to bounce, when he's not holding still watching a target, but he and Phil have been partners in the field (okay, handler and asset, semantics, whatever) for three years, and at this point there aren't exactly hundreds of new things to learn (except the hundreds Clint quietly _wants_ to learn, but which he's sure Phil would say are not appropriate to a working relationship, which he can and will live with).

“I have been known to do that,” Phil says. “Usually my tastes run more to trashy reality, but sometimes a man needs underwater campfires and aggressive plankton.”

“Nat is going to raise both eyebrows at the same time when she finds out!”

“She'd never believe you, but who says she doesn't know? Maybe it's our little secret.”

“Nah, she'd have told me. Also, I may have already texted her a pic of your recorded stuff.”

“...Of course you did.” Phil goes down the hall without turning on a light and rustles around for a few minutes.

“You're not mad, are you? That I might have texted?”

“At least with with Natasha I have no particular need to uphold a reputation.” Phil comes back barefoot and in--holy shit this is better than Spongebob--faded thin sweat pants with a hole in the knee, and a US Army t-shirt so worn it's practically transparent. “But don't do it again.”

Clint stares. What, he can't help that, either. “You're practically naked.”

Phil shrugs. “You breaks in and stays, you gets what you gets.”

“All right, who are you and what have you done with Coulson?” Clint narrows his eyes suspiciously, taking in the bags under Phil's eyes and remembering that his tie had been pretty sad-looking, too. “Just how long had you been at work, anyway?”

“Just since yesterday.”

“Sleep?”

“Catnap. Two, actually.”

“Where, medical?”

“Office floor.”

“Jesus, you should really get a couch.” This is not a new argument, and okay, usually Clint's point is that if Phil had a couch Clint would have a place to nap, but this is an equally valid reason. Maybe, _maybe_ more valid. By a hair. Also, if this is how Phil takes care of himself, maybe Clint should break in more often.

“I _have_ a couch. You're sprawling on it.”

Clint scoots over and pats the cushion. “There's room! You can even put your feet up on my lap. I totally don't mind.”

“Oh, you don't mind if I lie down on my own couch?” Phil's face is cranky and tired, but he doesn't actually _sound_ cranky; he sounds a little giddy. Maybe it's the exhaustion.

“Nope!” Clint beckons. “Come on. Sit. Oh hey, do you have any root beer?”

“Barton, I keep root beer for you in my office, but as I had no reasonable expectation--”

“So no? OK.”

Phil comes around the couch and plunks down, leaning back into the corner, and Clint clicks the remote to bring up the show. It's Spongebob learning to drive, which Clint has seen half a dozen times but it never stops being funny, so he watches the first part before getting up to hobble into the kitchen and get a glass of water. He does, actually, need to take more painkillers, and yeah, Phil won't really be able to watch his back, obviously, but he'll still feel safe, so.

When he goes back in, Phil's conked out, head back awkwardly, chin up, mouth open.

Clint stands there and watches him for a few seconds, surprised even though he knows his own damn reason for staying here is that Phil makes him feel safe, that apparently Phil also feels safe with him; this is sound sleep with no waking on Clint's return, and even in the safest safehouse that's never happened before.

Finally he goes and fetches a blanket from the closet he examined earlier, turns the lamp off, and sits down to watch Spongebob, pulling Phil toward him with the blanket over both of them and grinning quietly when Phil nuzzles into his chest without waking.

During the second short episode (probably? Maybe the third; painkillers aren't great for details), he falls asleep himself, leaning the other way until his head is on the cushion by the arm and Phil's head is on his hip. 

When he wakes, the TV has gone dark and Phil's arms are wrapped around his thigh, and Clint smiles again and resolves to check on whether appropriateness for a working relationship is something Phil cares about as much as he expected. Because semi-accidental couch snuggles are awesome, but deliberate ones might be even better. And he'd be down with that.

Then he reaches for the remote and figures out how to save all the episodes they just slept through so they can watch them in the morning.

Or the afternoon; he's flexible.

“Hey Phil?”

“Hmm?”

“Should we move to your bed? Uh, you, I mean. I can stay out here.”

Phil comes half awake, blinks at Clint for a second with his hair sticking up in tufts, and shakes his head. “The way my back feels in the morning is going to be your fault, but I'm comfortable here,” he says, and he goes back to sleep.

Clint clicks off the TV and rests his hand on the soft cotton t-shirt on Phil's shoulder, and follows along.


End file.
